


the meaning of love, as pieced together by tiz arrior

by healing



Category: Bravely Default (Video Game) & Related Fandoms
Genre: (um... fluff.. blah blah.... i will update more as the story progresses lol), Holding Hands, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/healing/pseuds/healing
Summary: "Is this all love means by your definition then? The contemporary? Spontaneous dates and kissing and… and—"Ringabel blinks. "Well, of course not. This is a question you'd best be asking yourself if you want the definite answer, right?"(Or: Tiz experiences Ringabel first, and love second.)
Relationships: Tiz Arrior/Ringabel
Kudos: 15





	the meaning of love, as pieced together by tiz arrior

**Author's Note:**

>   * dedicated lovingly to sho & the tizrins that follow me on priv <3
>   * sorry if theyre too ooc i havent played this game in years -__- 
> 


The first time Tiz sleeps with Ringabel, it begins with a sleepless night.

But that's typical, he figures, for his new everyday—because even as chaos throws him across the continents, the insomnia remains constant. The pain is real. The pain is there. And it is very, wholly real.

In all honesty, waking up on the verge of tears for a few consecutive nights has made the notion occur to Tiz that the following remainder of his life would be spent on cold sweats and weekends musing recent regrets. Possibly. If he's pessimistic about it. No explanations for the optimism that evades him.

But even as there are no explanations for a lot of things, the nightmares seem like the most reasonable candidate to blame.

So, like he usually does (circa about two months ago), Tiz waits. He waits out the creeping darkness and imminent mindscape catastrophes by immersing himself in the brightest of flowering lights—again, for the upteenth night in a row. It's a temporary solution, but then again, there's a distinct absence of any better remedies.

The colors blur from where he's perched on the tiled catwalk. Fully armored, he painfully sticks out like a sore thumb in comparison to the town's residents. The Land of Radiant Flowers' capital remains devoutly unshaken to its name, despite the dire circumstances of its fall from grace—Florem's salacious lights drown out even the distinct wails of Luxendarc's sunset, and they're an illusion of grandeur to the untrained eyes of a farmhand up close. This is when he realizes that they're like every goddamn light that Tiz has ever sat across from in his entire life.

 _Psychological torture_ , he concludes, sickened and in rejection of the contemporary as night stirs and buzzes on his skin, _this is psychological torture_.

Psychological torture or not, he still waits. He waits with the hopeful, waning conviction that the lightheadedness induced from lack of sleep will distract him for the rest of the night and will rock him to bed in comforting nothing. He also waits for Ringabel, most of all, but the problem is that it's been at least four hours since he's last seen the man in question.

An indeterminate amount of time passes before the indistinct throbbing in his head chimes: _half past two_ —given the possibility that his internal clock still works. (Now when does anything of his work right nowadays?) His practicality makes him think to drown out the ticking bomb in his head.

He thinks about Edea and Agnès, curled up comfortably in their room for two. He thinks about sleeping. He thinks about loneliness. He thinks about sleeping alone, again, if Ringabel doesn't turn up within the next five minutes. He also thinks about crying himself to sleep tonight, maybe. Then a convenient migraine blooms across his temple, in likeness of the flowers of the plaza, and Tiz's mind wanders into the colorful realm of the alarmingly surreal.

Ringabel—in all his gallant glory—is also colorfully and alarmingly surreal when Tiz spots him, much to his (un)surprise: the usual desaturated colors of his appearance forsaken for the summoner's garb, he's tinted from head to toe in neon hues of rose and lilac and all the rest of the flowers that Tiz can't be bothered to parse.

He, the flower, locomotes towards Tiz slowly through a syrupy fog of mind-blurring colors, the pattern of his haphazard footsteps making Tiz's head spin. "If it isn't my _favorite_ farmboy." His voice is as sultry as it usually is, and it catches on the rotundity of the A— _faaaavorite_ , an enticing sound. His, the favorite in question, least favorite adjective. "Didn't expect to see you still up at this hour."

Tiz involuntarily winces at the shift of focus from the pathless phosphenes to a familiar face and pieces together a greeting devoid of "good"s and "evening"s and instead blurts a half-accusatory, "Where were you?" and it comes out a bit ruder than he intended. But if Ringabel took offense to the brass of the inquiry, he doesn’t show it.

"Mingling with the locals." The words roll, slowly with an air of practiced confidence, as if it were supposed to be patently obvious. Tiz figures as much. Florem, as beautiful as it is, has become a flytrap—venus, to be specific—for gallivants. Ringabel's body is festering in its digestive juices. "Though I didn't exactly get as far as I'd hoped, so here I am. Don't tell me—were you waiting for me?"

"... I was." Well, it's a half-lie. Tiz pauses for a moment, a confused pinch teetering at the edge of his brow as he catches a whiff of something that makes his chest feel tight. "Were you drinking?"

He's met with a shrug in place of an obvious answer. Ringabel's heels leave the ground as he closes the space between them. "I assure you that I'm in perfect condition, darling Tiz."

After the admittance, a canine tooth and its friends idly teethe at Tiz's lower lip. He dismisses the pet name as fault to the alcohol. "The whole week we've been here, you've been out until sunrise. You do know we're supposed to leaving first thing in the m—"

"I'm just... so flattered that you were waiting to see if my nightly escapades have treated me well, really I am!" Ringabel interjects while nudging Tiz's shoulder, to which Tiz recoils a little in response, "Surely you have better things to do with your spare time?"

"Ah, well… no. Just planned on going to bed as soon as you came back, so nothing special. And, um, speaking of, I have a favor to ask."

"I'd be happy to provide anything that is... monetarily reasonable."

"No, no money-related favors," Tiz laughs (albeit nervously at what Ringabel might have been suggesting), quirking the slightest of smiles at the other's unnecessary extravagance, "at least this time."

"Mm, very well."

"This," he swallows hard, " may come off as a strange request, but would you mind if tonight I—we, uh, could…"

"Tiz, if I may not be so rude as to interrupt—" Ringabel rudely interrupts for the second time, "but of _course_ we can have a ‘boy's night out'! Unexpected of you to suggest, but it is so exciting to have you join my adventures! I must clarify one thing: the next tab must fall to your responsibility, but—"

If there is anything more sore and strange than the irony of an offer of money to an attempt to leech, it's the sound of surprise Tiz makes in response. "Wha—? No, Ringabel—that's not what I was gonna say. First off, it's late. And second, don't you think you've had enough already?" (Besides, you've already spent all my money the last time you went out, he wants to add, but discussing Ringabel's self-destructive spending habits would have to be saved for another night.)

Ringabel has the effrontery to gawk, scandalized. "Never enough for the sake of gallivanting, my friend. Spare a thought: It's our last day in this lovely city—who knows when we will visit once more?"

"You're our pilot," Tiz says, almost immediately. "We can always stop by for a quick visit after we take care of the crystals, right?"

"No, no, no! You don't understand the plight of man—of _men_ , Tiz. How soon will I be able to escort another fair maiden to her bed in the evening after departure? To enjoy the vibrant city nightlife?"

He hardly has to think about this one too. "I'm sure there are plenty of women in Eisenberg," reassures Tiz, although he has to spare a cringe at the new topic. "And the girls wanted to depart early in the morning. The most sleep we can get by now is about a little over three hours." His reasoning is rewarded with a pause—Ringabel's deliberation is silent, but not unhappy.

"A convincing argument." A sigh, a whine. He rolls his shoulders in an indolent motion, and suddenly in Tiz's head, he can't fathom why he always makes it so difficult to have a simple conversation. "Always the responsible one. You have a good head on your shoulders, but the same can’t be said for the other. It’s a shame you're not up for a little bit of excitement."

Tiz cringes. "Our definitions of 'excitement' don't really overlap."

"Honestly, Tiz. I've always found you to be a bit lacking in the ‘love' department, as brutal as it sounds."

And then there's silence.

So it’s true, big deal—yet strangely, hearing it from Ringabel made some kind of huge elephant fill the empty space of the room in his mind, and _ouch_ does it hurt. Is this the kind of note he wants to end the night on?

Tiz blinks.

Tiz fidgets.

Ringabel yawns.

"Now, what was it that you wanted to ask of me?"

"Oh." The vowel percolates in his throat, oxidizes in the air, and with it the elephant. _It should be illegal for Ringabel to talk as boldly and as honestly as he does_. "Oh, right. I wanted to ask if… you didn't mind sharing a bed, tonight." His mouth burns as he strings together the final portion of his request, mousy and quiet. It's unsure, open-ended, like it needs Ringabel's honest answer to finish: "With… with me?"

* * *

Ironically, the lurid woman at the reception with the headache-inducing hair color gives the pair a strange look when Tiz checks into their own room (a single shared room with their single shared bed), but he decides to not let it get to him, blaming their battle-ready appearances rather than the most apparent fact. Ringabel either doesn't notice, too mesmerized by the fluorescent lights flickering through the thinness of the walls, or is just that right amount of tired that results in him not giving a single damn.

Their room is reasonably across the hall from where the girls said they were sleeping in—a double, Tiz assumes, and he flushes the color of a sunburn when he makes the comparison. He's quick to unlock the door to the suite (whilst fumbling with the lock for a very long batch of seconds) and Ringabel trails knowingly behind him.

The bed is large. The bed is a standalone. And the bed is theirs. He stares at it for far too long for it to leave a comfortable impression, a strange mix of exhaustion and his mild hatred for sleep otherwise clouding his better judgement, the smoothness of the sheets and lack of creases in the pillows making it look hyperlucid. It's certainly very different from the bunks of the group room the four had shared on nights before, but it's not like he can complain now—he just wants to sleep. Peacefully.

A bed is a bed.

Ringabel, Tiz observes, is unexpectedly silent save for a few strained grunts as they both forgo the majority of their outfits in favor of the bare essentials, with only the rustling of fabric and soft clinking of armor encompassing the negative quadrilaterals. _Quiet Ringabel is company_ , he thinks as he removes the last of his armor, _but quiet Ringabel is different_. 

Quiet Ringabel is much more manageable than the loud-and-obnoxiously-dramatic Ringabel that was promoting prostitution to him just moments before—but it’s off-putting to say the least. Tiz feels nervous. Maybe he should’ve accepted to humor him.

Then everything is thrown together in a single amalgamation of iridescence and chainmail in a far corner.

The room stubbornly remains illuminated with a perpetual glow, even after Tiz blows out the candle on the nightstand, so when he's nestled, he pulls the comforter over his eyes, scoots down til the lights don't bother him. He doesn't feel Ringabel do the same. He can feel the weight of Ringabel's body vicariously by the slight crevice in the edge of the mattress.

There are no fantasies in foul Florem, deflowered Florem, Florem with the salacious lights, and certainly not in-between the lines. And maybe it's a mistake to ask more of Ringabel—even though he surely didn't mind the initial request, he agreed after all—but the quiet is uncomfortable.

He can't sleep.

He wants to hear Ringabel speak.

He wants to ask a pressing question.

"Ringabel." Tiz tests the environment, a toe in the water. His voice sounds much louder underneath the weight of the sheets over him despite his own meekness, making his attempt at conversation rebound embarrassingly back at him tenfold, "do you really thi—"

"Hmm? I can barely hear you from under there."

Cool oxygen hums on his face when he pulls the comforter just below his chin. "Do… you really think that?" Tiz tries again, now affixed to the patterns of color dancing across the wallpaper. A ripple in the pond. The light filtering in through the gridded ceiling makes his eyes water. Even without looking, he can tell Ringabel's back is facing him.

Ringabel's voice, monotonous with exhaustion: "Think what?"

"... about what you said earlier—that I don't know much about ‘love', or whatever you said." _This sounds whiny_.

With the thought in mind, he tries not to sound offended or hurt, but it doesn't come across that way when Ringabel responds, "Does it bother you that much? I apologize." _He sounds oblivious_.

"Don't apologize for telling the truth." _I want to drop off the face of the continent entirely_.

"You make yourself out to be a hopeless fool, Tiz. Although very annoyingly obstinate, your oblivious innocence is your most endearing and selling factor! Nothing to be ashamed about." Ringabel quite obviously has more to say, but Tiz isn't entirely sure if he wants to hear it.

"It really didn't bother me at all, honest," the hopeless fool lies for the second time that night, "I just wanna know your thought process behind your ‘brutal honesty'."

A pause. "Well," Ringabel tests, voice dulcet, careful, and stupidly curious (a real oddball thing about it all), "have you ever loved before, Tiz?"

Tiz might be obliviously innocent, but it doesn't stop him from suddenly regretting the conversation. He swallows around the tightness in his throat, albeit nervously, obviously unprepared for a response because _what kind of answer am I supposed to give to that_? "I mean, there is—" he thinks for a moment, tasting a new assortment of grammar that he never thought to use ‘til he was old as the soil and rotting away in the dirt, "was my family…"

"Oh—crystals, no!" Ringabel turns and Tiz shrinks at the outburst and sudden movement, the bed creaking lowly in protest. "My condolences, but don't willingly strike your own nerves, Tiz. What I meant was, have you ever had a lover before?"

The answer is blunt, truthful, and a little bit depressing, if rated by Ringabel: "I… no."

Beside him, the sheets shuffle, Ringabel in the act of crossing one leg over the other—right-ankle, left-knee: "Ah, well, hm."

Tiz grips the sheets. "... what is it?"

"Nothing. It’s just as I expected."

"You say that as if it were a bad thing. Should I be insulted?"

"Moving on. How about... a date? An escort?"

"No. And did you even have to ask the second part?"

Ringabel's response hardly misses a beat, nearly immediate as he puffs derisive laughter into a closed fist. "Heh, I suppose not." Obdurately tactful. Or perhaps, he owes it to Tiz, lying supine, still, and not laughing. Whatever it is, the fervent high is back in his voice again—it rings at an octave of playful optimism as Ringabel continues the (evidently fruitless) guessing game. "A crush perhaps? I can assume Agnès is the strongest contender for your affections, no? She's such a pretty thing, you've got good taste. Maybe there's some fire in you, somewhere."

Now, normally Tiz is the one to agree with Ringabel when it comes to keeping the group unified (as if the girls are in any better position than he is), and he has to admit: yes, Agnès, despite her humble, isolated background, is beautiful. Gorgeous, even. But he joined her under the condition that he would aid her—taking advantage of the fact sounds like an act of sacrilege.

Not that Ringabel particularly cares whether or not he—Tiz or himself, for that matter—indulges in blasphemy. He's practically engaging in it right now.

"Wh—it's not like that!" Tiz exclaims, a fervent heat spreading across his cheeks.

"By the gods, Tiz, you're just proving my point. Is copulation not a crucial part of Norendian culture?"

"Copu—… I'm starting to think I shouldn't have even asked you the question to begin with. We should just go to sleep and forget that I started this conversation."

"I'm joking! You naïve types sure are defensive. Don't tie your ego to the fertility of your love life until it bears fruit, as I say."

"I've never heard you say that."

" _Ahem_." Dandy miscreant. Ringabel finally climbs into bed properly beside him. "But… you've at least kissed a lovely girl at least once in your nineteen years, right?"

It doesn't take a man of Ringabel's intelligence to predict the next answer, which comes out in a nervous-toned, "I… I haven't." Because really, Tiz is as practical and simple as they come, as grounded as the soil and all the particles of rot in it. He catches the hardened, merciless burn of Ringabel's sun when he turns his head and whittles at the inner corner of his cheek. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Never?"

"Never."

"Never _ever_?" Ringabel, on cloud nine.

"... you don't have to rub it in, Ringabel." Tiz, stuck on the earth.

"Wow. I mean—just—wow."

Tiz frowns into the not-darkness of their room, "If you're going to make fun of me, I'd appreciate it if you could make it less obvious."

"I'm not making fun of you." Ringabel moves a little closer to Tiz, enough so that their faces are mere inches away and Tiz can muss for the warmth radiating from the divot of his figure. A knowing expression graces his pallid countenance. "And is it ever obvious if I do anyways?"

"Yes, it is. So at least don't make it about my ‘dissatisfying' love life for the entire night."

"I just said I'm not—ah, whatever. You're much too fun to get a rise out of."

"Mm."

They lay on their sides facing each other in mutual silence, with one of them initiating a trifling staring contest. The game is simple: they stare at each other, not sleeping. Tiz fixates on the upturned corners of Ringabel's lips.

And they ask: "So—what would you do if we kissed right now?"

"Ah—Huh?" Tiz ends their game, and blinks. "What—what did you say?"

"You heard me, Tiz Arrior. What if we kissed right now?" _Psychological torture_.

"Right now?"

"Right now." _Ah, psychological torture_.

"Kiss—I—you—we—"

Granted, as Tiz is wrapped up and eaten alive by the blaring sirens in his chest, digesting in the stomach of Florem, Ringabel gifts him sweet utterances and a sly smile. "Speechless? Take your time. I know this is such an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Or can be multiple, if you fancy."

Tiz, aghast: "You're asking if… you'll be my first kiss?"

Ringabel, amused: "If you'd like, I can arrange it accordingly."

"What… what do you mean by that? Are you teasing me again?"

"Absolutely not," Ringabel counters jovially, which sounds a whole like an affirmation instead, "What gave you the impression?"

"I don't believe you! Explain yourself!"

"There's no underlying message to it, sweet Tiz," Ringabel says, and Tiz can feel said purveyor of garishness moving his hands up from underneath the sheets. "I am donating a kiss to one who's never received one in nineteen years of his life. I want you to look into my eyes, hold my face gently, pretend I'm the dutiful Lady Vestal, and—" Blasphemous miscreant. Maybe he'll uncross crying himself to sleep and do it tonight after all.

"Would you stop bringing Agnès into this?" Tiz begs.

Ringabel rolls his eyes. "Alright, then imagine I am the most gorgeous farmgirl you've ever seen, buckwheat and all."

" _Buckwheat_?"

At that, a single hand—Ringabel's—makes its way to carress Tiz's cheek, the one uncradled by the mattress underneath them. It's soft, warm—but Tiz flinches a bit when it makes contact. "Let's stick to the scenario, Tiz."

A likely byproduct of Ringabel's unabashed straightforwardness, Tiz finds himself shaking his head in response, head howling for answers of _time, place, intention, and_ —

"See the pressing issue?" Ringabel's voice cuts through the denseness of the afterthoughts he's sparked not even a second later, as if he could read Tiz's mind like an open book. A dangerously open book. The invasive hand returns to the side of its owner, and with it, its lingering warmth left in absence. "You worry too much about the ‘right time' or ‘right place' and all these other minuscule things. You just have to be immersed in the moment."

It's Tiz's turn to gawk, despite the conversation consuming his brain raw.

"Is this all love means by your definition then? The contemporary? Spontaneous dates and kissing and… and—"

Ringabel blinks. "Well, of course not. This is a question you'd best be asking yourself if you want the definite answer, right?"

"Huh?"

"What is love to you, Tiz?"

"Love… to me?" Tiz echoes, a weak, loathsome sound.

"Correct. If my perception of love isn't concurrent with your interests, then you need to find it out yourself. ‘It' being love, of course."

And with that, about another thousand lines of text litter the pages of Tiz's brain-book. _Where do I start?_ He's getting another migraine. _This is too confusing… Why am I even worried about it?_ He forsakes a hand from underneath to nurse his burning head, and, despite his cold fingertips, reminds himself of Ringabel's touch.

_Was he really going to kiss me?_

"And with that," drawls Ringabel, "I am going to retire for the night and allow you to reflect on it. You are quite the amusing person to have a late-night conversation with."

Tiz barely feels like his living form is material or opaque when he mutters in response, "Thanks, I guess..."

Eyelids at half-mast, the other disappears partly underneath the floral sheets with a pleasant smile and an equally-as-pleasant lilt to his tone. Tiz wonders if that's what he looks like dead. "Goodnight, Tiz."

"... Goodnight," the one aforementioned repeats a whole breadth of a beat later.

And he doesn't turn away, occupying himself with counting the few seconds it takes for Ringabel's arctic eyes, half-slits, to untense into sleeping crescent moons. He is much more manageable while asleep, Tiz figures. He supposes his demons are too.

It doesn't take very long for Ringabel's soft snoring to drown out the faint veil of quietude in the room, and it doesn't take very long for Tiz to guess that they'll receive approximately an hour of sleep, maximum. He returns to the position on his back, unable to send his regards to the realm of sleep because his comforting nothing has become an uncomfortable something—one reflecting on the strangely insightful wisdom Ringabel had just bestowed upon his endearingly innocent person, on thoughts of kisses, on thoughts of colorful lights.

But regardless, he falls genuflect to his own exhaustion, reciprocity cremating him where he lays beside a sleeping corpse. And he closes his eyes, chest rising and falling in tandem with that of the man's beside him.

The first time Tiz sleeps with Ringabel, it's all they do.

Sleep.


End file.
